


and the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love

by thedreamsteam



Series: the dream team fics [62]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (it’s about Tommy dw), Angst, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28247829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedreamsteam/pseuds/thedreamsteam
Summary: Tubbo’s horns bleed.He’s gotten used to carrying a tissue in his pocket, throwing it away once the day ends and putting a new one in once the next day starts. They’re all stained red, something he can’t control, and they all stay the same dark, dark red.or, Tubbo doesn’t like the fact that he’s leading a country when he’s only 16
Series: the dream team fics [62]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913893
Comments: 2
Kudos: 74





	and the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love

**Author's Note:**

> hi i didn’t rlly explain it in this fic (or mention it at all whoops) but tubbo is schlatt’s son so that’s why he has horns :]
> 
> dedicated to cam!!!! they said, and i quote, “write it coward” so HI (they also said they want to read it so here u go)
> 
> title from pompeii by bastille bc i love them

Tubbo’s horns bleed.

He’s gotten used to carrying a tissue in his pocket, throwing it away once the day ends and putting a new one in once the next day starts. They’re all stained red, something he can’t control, and they all stay the same dark, dark red.

When he gets distracted, sometimes, the blood drips down his face and stains his clothes. It doesn’t happen a lot, has only happened once or twice, but he tries to hide it the best he can.

That’s all he does, isn’t it? He hides himself and locks parts of himself away, choosing to only show the best parts of himself, choosing to show the strongest parts.

(But strong isn’t the right word, is it? Because none of his parts are strong, none of them. If you compare his strongest parts to his weakest, then you only get the tiniest difference.

It’s the most confident part, then, the one that can survive standing in front of everyone and begging for some mercy, trying to decide what is right and what is wrong.)

The blood that drips down his face stains the paper underneath him, and he can’t do anything other than hope that Dream won’t mind.

There’s an itch at the back of his mind and a pressure behind his eyes, but he only presses his hands against his eyes as he rests his arms against the table. The pressure doesn’t stop, though, only builds, and when he pulls his hands away and pulls his tissue out, the tears drip onto the paper

“Oh, fuck,” He says aloud, standing up quickly, but when he catches sight of himself in the mirror, he sighs.

He looks too... old. The suit stays unwrinkled, nearly shining underneath the light of the lamp. His eyes have bags underneath them, heavy in the room, and his hands are clenched, always tense. Always ready for a fight.

_ What happened _ , he wonders.  _ What happened for me to turn out like this? _

He sighs, and relaxes his body, letting his back change from it’s straight posture to his usual messed up one. No one is around to see, no one is around to stop him.

It’s freeing.

He turns off the light and walks to the drawers by his bed and strips before he changes, throwing the suit and other things onto a pile that’s only ever growing, before collapsing into the bed that’s sat beside the drawers.

The darkness only has to settle for a few minutes before he starts to think about the fact that he’s only 16. He’s only 16 and he’s leading a country that it’s people have abandoned. He’s 16 and he’s leading a country like he’s 26, like he knows what he’s doing, like he’s had time to learn the right and wrong.

He’s 16, and no one seems to know that he’s only a child.

The tears start once more, and he buries his face into his pillow before he can make his hoodie wet.

He shouldn’t be doing any of this. He shouldn’t be leading a country, he shouldn’t be watching everyone he loves leave him, he shouldn’t have had to exile his best fucking friend.

He should be having fun in the snow and running around with Tommy. He should be yelling and jumping around and being a chaotic force with his best friend.

Instead, he’s the leader of a country. He’s the one who’s drove away all his friends. He’s the one who’s caused everything to fuck up like this.

He’s a fucking child, but he sure doesn’t feel like one.

(His horns bleed onto his bed and stain his clothes, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t mind, because there’s only one thought on his mind, one thing, and it’s simply the fact that his best friend is dead because of him.

The ground had rushed to meet him when he had gone to visit Tommy in just his hoodie and sweatpants, had wanted to see him, needed to know that he was okay. But when he arrived, when he stepped out of the portal, there was a tower of cobblestone and a crater in the ground, and it was easy to put the two things together.

What kind of president lets their friends die by their hand?)

**Author's Note:**

> @itseret on tumblr


End file.
